


Close Quarters

by RoseCathy



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseCathy/pseuds/RoseCathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Series VIII AU using the “We have to share the bed” trope, per <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/profile">VeronicaRich</a>’s challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Quarters

It’s not just the novelty of falling asleep next to a warm body. Rimmer has grown to anticipate the ritual argument about whose knee is stabbing whom, the quiet snuffling noises that Lister makes when he’s not snoring. Even the sight of Lister sucking his thumb, which should be disgraceful by any measure, has become a sort of balm for the long, dreary days in the Tank.

The last item in particular makes Rimmer think that maybe there’s something wrong with him. Meanwhile, the upper bunk continues to go unrepaired.

“What if it falls down on us?” he asks, squinting up at the mismatched, warped slats.

“It won’t,” Lister says into his pillow. “Not now there’s no weight on it.”

This reassurance is also part of their ritual.

  


One thing that hasn’t changed during Rimmer’s absence from life is Lister’s preoccupation with Kristine Kochanski, so it comes as a surprise when he announces that he is going on a date with some other woman. Her name is vaguely familiar; Rimmer thinks she might have been a Canary at some point.

“Don’t wait up,” Lister sings over his shoulder as he leaves.

“As if,” Rimmer replies automatically. All appearances suggest that he is immersed in a draughts game, but staring down at the board is actually helping him hide the queasy, unbalanced sensation in his gut. He’s never felt anything like it before; then again, he’s never been on a regular diet of prison food before.

When lights-out rolls around, he stretches out luxuriously on the bunk. He spreads his arms and legs as far out toward the corners as possible and rubs his face in his pillow, which is back in its rightful position. At last, some smegging space. No having to retract his limbs, no dreadlocks whipping back and forth dangerously in front of his nose.

For some reason, however, Rimmer’s night is fraught with unpleasant dreams. He is finally at the edge of deep sleep, about to dive off, when someone prods him and whispers, “Move over.”

“Go away,” he groans in outrage.

“Come on, man, I’m dead tired.”

“No.”

Hands slide under his body and roll him gently back toward the wall — chest, abdomen, legs. Then the mattress shakes and a familiar weight settles next to him.

Before his brain can form a snarky comment about how Lister’s charms must have failed that evening, he sinks into a blissful, dreamless slumber.

  


Having an arm around something warm and alive is quite pleasant. The arm rises and falls in sync with slow breaths, and his heart beats steadily, if a little quickly, against a bony back. Alarms are being set off by some hidden section of his mind, but he is too content to heed them. This is marvellous; why hasn’t he tried it before? Suddenly, a real, screeching alarm fills the room, and he realises with a crash of his cognitive system what ( _whom_ ) he has been snuggling.

Lister has realised it too. He bolts out of the bunk and backs away until he hits the table, saucer-eyed and struggling for words. “You…I…” 

“This…” is the only word Rimmer can manage. He instinctively withdraws, pulling his blanket close. His confusion is not helped by the part of him that is clamouring for Lister to get back into his arms.

Before either of them can sort out their vocabulary, a second alarm goes off. There’s nothing to do except stumble out of their cell to see what exciting assignment awaits them.

They don’t discuss the incident. The only acknowledgement happens silently at every lights-out, when they try their hardest to put at least two inches between their bodies before they fall asleep.

  


Lister agrees to share their old quarters again once their sentence ends — by default, Rimmer thinks.

The room is the same as ever. Grey walls, grey bunks, goldfish swimming - actually, Lennon is swimming, while McCartney is pointing his little fish lips longingly at the ceiling. Rimmer reclaims the lower bunk, ignoring the niggling feeling that not everything is quite right.

“You’ve finally got your own bed back.” He can’t hear the bitterness in his own voice, so he is nonplussed when Lister pauses in his walk toward the fish bowl to give him a strange look.

  


By 3 a.m. ship’s time, it’s clear that neither of them can sleep.

“I can’t sleep,” Lister grumbles from the top bunk. For a brief, irrational moment, Rimmer wants to snap at him for giving voice to such an obvious fact, but the urge passes when Lister’s feet hit the floor with a muted thump.

Rimmer is tired of thinking about this, tired of the lurching in his heart and the ache in his arms. So he acts.

As soon as he lifts the duvet, Lister slides into the lower bunk and shuffles close. Their arms fit neatly around each other’s bodies, and when they kiss, Rimmer lets go once and for all of the worry that something is wrong with him.

He can’t imagine going to sleep any other way.


End file.
